


Smoldering Flames

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Relationship, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:22:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28627194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: "He chokes, gasps and sucks in a breath. Lungs sting at the move, cheek burning, skin scrapped raw and open. He drags open burning eyes, takes in the house half on fire, the burning tavern, far side half collapsed, air thick with smoke and pain."Jaskier just wanted a quiet, calm night. Sadly, the universe clearly has different ideas.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 145





	1. Chapter 1

It was a quiet night.

A calm, quiet night.

Comfortably quiet, as he wanders back through winding streets, half drunk and happy. World empty and still.

Streets mostly empty, only the occasional shout from a drunkard or scream of an owl momentarily breaking the quiet of the night.

Not nearly enough of a disturbance to annoy him, comfortably soft mind focused on placing uneven foot in front of foot. Boots slip against uneven cobblestones, world slowly slipping past as he walks. Past dark houses and dimly lit taverns, only the occasional half lantern sparkling in a dirty window or two. 

He stumbles, shoulder hits a wall just a touch too hard, and takes the chance to take a breath. To stop and breathe, eyes wandering up to the sky. The dark grey blue expanse stretching up above him. Clouded and hazy with the lights of the world.

He pulls in a deep breath, feeling the comfortable coldness of the night air in his lungs.

He is headed back to their room, a cozy little nook tucked away from the noise of the night. Slowly, gradually, no need to rush, coin purse comfortably full with well earned winnings from a night of work. Belly full of food and drink, alcohol comfortably buzzing through his blood.

Headed back to a soft bed. Soft and warm and comfortable and all to himself, the Witcher out for the night, not bothering to say if he was out on a hunt or perhaps had found other… _accommodation_ for the evening. 

Perhaps.

There was nothing strictly stopping the other man if he was, they hadn’t really discussed it, set strong boundaries.

Set any boundaries.

Gods they should probably talk.

For some reason the cold of the air feels as though it had suddenly developed a bite. He shivers at the thought, suddenly feeling the chill. Drags a slow, lazy hand down the side of his face.

It is all too much to think about now. Too heavy and dark and loaded. He doesn’t want that now, doesn’t want the drop. The ice in his veins and churning mess in his stomach it would bring. 

So instead, he breathes deep, focuses on the comfortable kiss of night wind against his face, the left-over warmth of the day still radiating off the bricks. He half tuns to press his back against the wall instead of just his heavy shoulder. lets tired eyes fall shut for a moment, listening to the soft, quiet stillness of the night.

The silent stillness, feeling like a familiar, comfortable friend.

He loves these moments. The chances to breathe, to rest, away from the madness of the world, if only for a moment. To let his mind wander off into the darkness and come back empty and still.

He takes in another breath, deep and heavy. Deep and solid and comfortable in his chest.

It is quiet and soft and dark and perfect.

A little ways off there is a clattering of feet against stone, two men ducking out a tavern side door, down an alleyway-

Moving quickly, dressed in darkness, ready to slip into the empty blackness of the night.

He shouldn’t follow.

It could be nothing.

He shouldn’t follow.

There’s alcohol in his veins and a dull ache in his bones.

He should not follow.

It is not his business if two men chose to run, fleeing into the night. To leave behind an irate- almost horrified cry, light catching in the tavern window, something happening yet oddly no one giving chase-

He ducks down the side street.

Tries to ignore the little voice in the back of his mind suggesting this is an unwise decision, the uneven step of his foot, body woozy, lazy.

He stands at the ally entrance, only just stepped inside, still almost in the street, peering into the darkness. Men seemingly vanished, into the black. Into the night.

Air fallen still again, as though this had been just a minor disturbance. A ripple in a calm pool, quickly settled and returned to normality.

Returned to quiet, empty stillness.

He takes in a breath, feels the chill of the air in his lungs, a half huffed sigh of relief-

And then the world explodes.

Into red and blood and pain.

A quick, burning pain, sudden and sharp, world on fire in a moment.

In a breath.

He chokes, gasps and sucks in a breath. Lungs sting at the move, cheek burning, skin scrapped raw and open. He drags open burning eyes, takes in the house half on fire, the burning tavern, far side half collapsed, air thick with smoke and pain. Wood and glass sent flying in all directions.

He feels the blood trickle down the side of his face. A splattering of splinters sunk into skin. Little flecks of wood buried deep in his cheeks, his arm, the sudden, sharp, stabbing pain, buried deep in his leg. Eyes drop down to the limb. The lump of wood buried deep into soft flesh, blood slowly oozing out from around the wound.

He takes in a breath.

It doesn’t help.

He takes in another.

Tries to ignore the dark fuzzy edges of his vision. The hazy blur sliding over his eyes.

Brain blank, still oddly silent for a moment. Oddly quiet and empty. Despite the blood stinging his eyes and the fire in the sky.

It is as though it takes his ears a moment to catch up with the rest of the world. Sound rushing in and hitting him like a wave. A wall of noise smashing over him in a twisting turning mess.

The crackle of burning flames, snap and crash of half burnt beams suddenly giving way. The _screams._ A shout that goes up with the flames, pained and agonized.

The night is no longer quiet.

It is a loud, thundering chaos.

An overwhelming mess as the world explodes out onto the street. A crying woman, sent running into the road, fleeing from her house, already half encased in flames. A man collapses out through the taverns burning door, arm aflame, followed closely by a desperate woman with a baby clung tight to her chest.

Mind flicking back to the men in the alleyway. Men who set the street alight. Not that it’s his business. Not that he should get involved now, with a throb in his leg, the choking sting of smoke in the air, in his lungs.

Its not his business if they burn a house to the ground- building falling in, flesh burning- a child screams out for their mother-

He turns.

From the chaos, the screams and blood and mess, and pushes on into the shadows.

He makes it about a third of the way down before he realizes he has likely made a mistake. Only moments after the gentlemen ahead of him realized _they_ had made a mistake.

The alleyway doesn’t have an exit. It ends in a wall. A solid brick ending, no way through, only one way back.

A way he was now blocking. Body stood between two men willing to burn down a building and their only exit.

He should turn and leave, duck out of the alleyway before anyone even knows he was ever there. If only that thought could have hit him before one of the men had.

Brain still catching up to the situation when they reach him, men taking no time to sit and decide what to do about the woozy bard standing in the way, choosing instead to solve the issue with violence.

A man swings. A fist connects, and nothing but pure luck and the numbing strength of booze keeps him standing, taking no more than an uneven step backwards, ears ringing from the blow.

He stumbles, shakes off the dizzying ache and straightens back up.

And well, he can hardly run now, he is nothing, if not one to back down from a fight.

He swings back. Half blindly, mind still fuzzy and uncentered, power focused behind the swing. Hand connects firmly with a nose, crushed quickly under the weight of the throw. Blood splattering free, dribbling down the stranger’s face, staining his knuckles in the mess.

His hand aches. Bones shifted painfully at the impact.

Not that he gives it time to bother him, hand half drawn back, and he swings again, shorter distance leaving him with less force, not that it seems to matter too much, from the way the man steps back, hand raising to press against the faucet of blood pouring free from his face.

His hand throbs. his leg pulses, blood still dripping down his face, but he does his best to ignore it all, to focus on the task at hand. 

He takes a breath, ducks a returned swing, wide and sloppy enough that even half drunk he can avoid it.

A scream rings out from behind them, shouts go up in answer, he had half-forgotten the rest of world was on fire, the sky burning, fire spreading fast. Flames licking at the wooden walls lining the street, embers kiss the air, ash already floating down to settle in his air.

The building would go up in entirety soon, sparks would travel, burnt beams sent fallen in the road… soon this little, dark corner would be aflame, along with everything else.

They hadn’t time to squabble, and yet here they were, trading blows seemingly without a care in the world for the crackling, deadly flames already licking at their heels.

The other man swings, filling in for his friend and proving more successful, fist connecting with flesh. He stumbles backward, back hits the wall, head thwacks against the bricks, brain going fuzzy for a moment from the sharp jolt. Leg hits the wall, wood shifts, tearing deeper through flesh.

Splinters rip at the skin, sunk in deep.

The man swings again before he has time to recover, shake off the haze and clear his mind. Clarity brought with punch to the gut. Hard and heavy, body crumbling around the impact, knees shaking, almost buckling but not quite. Just enough to keep him standing. Keep him from dropping to the cobblestones below.

He gasps. Half chokes and shoves forward in a desperate attempt to avoid another blow. Shoulder strikes gut, as hard as he can manage, as best as he can do. Legs slide on the cobblestones, pressure against the man the only thing keeping him standing.

But as luck would have it, he manages to find his footing with speed, foot lodged against the wall, slide stopped short. He barely gives himself time to breath, time to think, before he pivots, pushes upwards as quick as he can. Head shoots up, snapping sharply into the man’s jaw. The man’s head is thrown up, thrown back with painful quickness.

Neck snapped back. Clearly aching.

His head aches as well, from the brute force of it. The strength of the blow. But he withstands it. He straightens, pushes up, just too much weight placed on an aching leg-

It buckles, it bends, finally losing its stability, losing the battle to stand up against the weight.

Knee hits the cobblestones with a crack, shockwaves sent up the bones, shaking. Pain radiating out, radiating up.

He tries to push back up, leg refusing to take the weight, hands clinging to the man before him, in a desperate attempt to stay stable. Stay at least halfway up if nothing else.

The man tries to shake him off, step back and push him back and aside, his hand twisting in the man’s shirt in a determined move to hang on. It takes him only half a moment to figure out what this position places him at the perfect hight for.

A fist drops from being curled in the man’s shirt to smash against the bastard’s genitals. The strike sends the man half curled over, gasping. The grasp and sharp twist earns him a harsh, angry curse. 

An angry curse which fires up his blood, veins on fire. He _squeezes,_ yanks down with as much effort as he can manage. Sends the man to his knees, face to face again, with an angry, pained scream.

He takes a breath and smashes forward, drives forehead into face. Feels the man’s nose crumple under the weight. The man snaps back, falls forward, crumbled in around himself even more.

He pushes up, uses the bastard’s shoulders for leverage to finally maneuver himself back to his feet. He takes the chance to drive his good knee into the stranger’s face, send the man collapsing to the ground, clutching his face in agony.

The other bastard takes this chance to step back forward, step beside his friend, hand curled into a fist, ready to strike again.

A crack rings out beside them, the snap and bend of burning wood. Building going up, sparks dancing down, onto the street below. They catch against his skin, settle in his hair, still half smoldering. Wind the only thing stopping them from choking on smoke.

The wood cracks, starts to collapse. Starts to crumble down, beams burning.

He considers. Considers the fear in the stranger’s eyes, the burning anger in his veins, pushing him forward and the terrifying crack of fire beside them. The sparks settled on his clothes, threatening to catch- 

He makes a decision. He steps back, feels the leg shift, threaten to give way again, only just managing to stay standing. Only just managing to stay up, leg slick with blood, body shaking from the tension, the effort.

He sucks in a breath. Turns as best he can, pivots on a bloody, shaking leg.

And runs.

And tries to run.

As best he can with smoke in his eyes and smoldering sparks of flame in his hair. Leg dragging heavy on the ground, managing little more than a quick limp to freedom. A quick, bloody, pained limp.

The man shoves past him, sends him stumbling into the wall once more, friend apparently left behind to his own fate, whatever that may be.

Hand curls around the edge of the wall, he pushes out of the alleyway, to the chaos that lays beyond.

The flames and screams and smoke. People spread throughout the street, neighbors peering out doorways and leaning out windows to witness the spectacle, decide if they need to pack up, flee from the flames.

He takes a moment, leans against the wall with heavy breath, half watching the stranger darting down the street. Letting him go, no fight left in his heaving chest.

He bites back a breathless mumbled curse, all that effort for nothing it seemed.

He offers another tired sigh to the air, to the universe at large and the ruined quiet of the night.

Tired eyes take in the scene, the fire licking at wood, taverns roof already caved in, swallowed by the flames. The gathering crowd, some trying to help, fetch enough water to do something, wrap survivors in blankets and bandage wounds, but most only watching. Only staring at the flames.

There is a crash from beside him and he realizes this likely isn’t the safest place to stand, pushing up off the wall with a heavy groan, body overall protesting the move.

He takes a half-stumbled foot forward, not really sure where he is headed, just aware this spot isn’t safe anymore.

By chance wandering eyes happen to land on a familiar figure, white hair bright in the shining light of the burning buildings, armor bright with blood. It had been a hunt then, good.

~~Not that he cares.~~

He slides up to the Witcher, as casually as one can manage with a hole in the leg and blood staining bruised knuckles. Tries to maintain composure as he manages to spit out a breathy, “…fancy seeing you here.”

Geralt snorts at that, drags his eyes from the flames to acknowledge him, “getting into trouble already, bard?”

He manages a half smile at that, “you may not believe it, but this had nothing to do with me.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, “really? It’s impressive how much of a mess you managed to get into for someone not involved.”

He offers a shrug in answer, it really hadn’t been his fault this time.

The fire crackles, something giving way, sparks flick up, into the air. He jumps, takes a startled step backwards, leg shaking, aching, threatening to give in again. He tilts to the side, shoulder hitting Geralt, letting the Witcher take at least some of his weight.

Geralt grunts at the move, shifts to adjust but doesn’t push him away.

He takes it as a win, shifts in closer, nuzzles in against Geralt, only half regretting it when the stench of old blood and monster guts hitting his nose. 

But then Geralt slings an arm around his shoulder and he decides he can survive it. He hums, soft and warm, the ache in his leg fading to the back of his mind.

Geralt offers a soft squeeze on the arm, firm but gentle, “come on then bard, lets go get you cleaned up.”

He sighs at that, nods in answer, more than ready to leave.

Tired feet stumble over themselves as he leans heavily against Geralt. Lets the Witcher carry his weight as he half limps away, stumbling down the street, leaving the flames to crackle and burn behind them.

At some point, loud shouts ring out behind them, the firefighters finally arriving to deal with the situation.

Perhaps it would be wrangled back under control before it spreads any further, he hopes so, it would be an annoyance to have to flee the city that night, he doubts he would get far on foot, and can only imagine how unpleasant the jostle of a horse would be at this time.

He wanted no such thing.

It had started as such a quiet night, just let him stumble back to the room, let him settle, let him rest and sleep.

Let him return to the quiet of the night, it’s all he needs now.


	2. Chapter 2

They shove open the door, Geralt shoves open the door, half carrying him by this point. The stairs had proved too much for the hole in his leg, body buckling at the pain when he had attempted them. the sharp stab of wood dug in deeper, mind white with pain.

The wound ached the entire way up, blood dripped out, soaked into cloth, fabric glued slick to his leg. Splattered red trail left behind, blood settled deep into wood, marking their path.

He tries not to think about it.

Its not hard to do, head woozy as it is.

Geralt all but drops him on the bed, he grunts at the impact, leg jostled, unable to deny that the Witcher could have been gentler with the action.

It’s one bed- ~~and this time not just because they couldn’t afford another~~ large and comfortable, taking up most of the cosy little room they have booked. It’s not a practical space. Not a space for blood and guts and bandaging. Not a place set out for quick stitches, worked in the light of fierce burning lamp, water already run red with blood.

But it would have to be, tonight.

His wounds demanded it.

It may be soft and comfortable and, Gods, so delicate, but he was already bleeding out all over the clean duvet.

This, he thinks faintly, is why they can’t have nice things.

He thwumps down, back against the mattress, letting himself stretch out as much as he can, feeling the ache in his body, the throb from his leg and light but persistent pounding in his head. Body heavy, dragging down into the bed, eyes fluttering closed, edges of darkness starting to creep in. Pull him into empty calmness...

A light hand slaps against his face, a sharp, “stay awake Jaskier.”

He groans, grumbles but nods. Sleep already slipping from his mind, forcing his eyes back open, back to the reality of the world. 

There’s a cry from somewhere in the distance, faint, and angry more than panicked, still-

“-s it safe?” or are they about to burn to death, are the flames going to prove too much for the city, eat through the buildings and roast them alive.

Geralt grunts, shrugs, seemingly not concerned by the possibility of a fiery death, only just on the horizon, as he offers an offhand, “if the screams start getting closer, we leave.”

“How comforting,” he bites back, dragging a still heavy body up onto elbows, looking down and the bloody mess he had become.

Specks of wood still stuck in his flesh, some torn free, leaving little trails of blood in their wake, smoke-stained fabric, thin layer of ash coated over, soaking into soft silks, clothes likely tarnished forever, and all of that is not to mention his leg.

The leg. He can see it now, better in the bright light of the oil lamp, not coated in layers of darkness or the dizzying shift and dance of fire light. See the lump of wood, lump of… wall? door frame? house – inn. Building. Buried deep in his flesh.

Nasty and cruel, wood dark, stained in his blood.

But it’s not all bad, not as big as he had thought, as the pain and fear had made it seem, a chunk, certainly, a nasty splinter, but… perhaps manageable. Survivable, something that would heal. If scar, just another make left on his body, and what was this one even for? Failing to stop two idiots who burnt down a building?

Was that even really worth it?

That was a darker whole that he wanted to fall into tonight. A darker thought than he wanted to deal with now, mind decidedly too hazy and muddled to manage it. That would be a spiral he doesn’t need, and it’s hardly like he doesn’t already have a stupid scar or two.

The gash on his arm from a taking a tumble off a tavern table, mid performance, gash on his knee, skin ripped open by stone when running from some beast he shouldn’t have provoked.

What did another mark really matter?

Geralt breaks him out from his hazy wonderings, jostling him as he settles on the edge of the bed. A makeshift scramble of supplies dragged together, small bedside table tugged over, bowl of water certainly not big enough for the mess settled on it. Needle, thread, bandages. Everything required.

Geralt shifts, bed sunken under the Witcher’s weight, sending him shifting down, bodies lightly knocked together, ever so slightly.

Geralt nods sharply, pats his thigh, and offers a gruff, “right, let’s see the leg.” Straight to the point as always then.

Still, he shifts, turns as much as he comfortably can and offers over the aching limb. 

Geralt hums, frown settled on his face, a concerning sound if there ever was one, limb twisted and turned under examination, muscles aching at the pull. Wood tugging at the flesh, tearing it open further.

Geralt turns the leg back, settles it comfortably across his lap, holding it steady. The Witcher wraps one arm firm around the limb, other lightly grasps the splinter, tough nails digging in to maintain grip.

He jolts at the touch. The sharp jab of pain as the splinter shifts.

Fingertips on the hand not holding the splinter dance gently against the skin. A soft comforting touch.

“Ready?”

He pulls in a heavy breath, a sharp, heavy breath. Settled cold in his lungs and forces a nod. He supposes he is as ready as he will ever be. Geralt nods back, nails dig in deeper, fingertips turning white. Geralt takes a breath, and _yanks._

His brain goes blank. Mind white with pain. A scream stuck in his throat, a choking lump he has to swallow down in desperate gasps, sucking back down the air, lungs burning.

Geralt yanks again, wood only half pulled free the first time.

He gasps, gags, half curled over in pain before collapsing back, flat on the bed with a heavy sigh.

Geralt sets the splinter aside. Almost feels unfair calling it that now, when he sees it in full, long and deep and brutal. A spear more than a splinter.

A shake sets into his leg. Pain radiating out from the wound, leg twitching, dancing from the ache.

He gasps, bites back curses, stuffing one of his fists into his mouth, holding back the desire to scream. A muffled sob manages to break free when Geralt presses the cloth to his wound.

He hisses at the pressure, Geralt unintentionally heavy handed as he wipes away the mess of half dried blood from Jaskier’s wound.

Blood at least somewhat cleaned away, Geralt picks up the needle and thread, pausing for a moment to study the wound, frown deepening in concern. “It’s a difficult one,” Geralt offers roughly.

A difficult wound, difficult shape. Hard to stitch up clean and nice, more than certain to leave a mark.

Still, Geralt gives it his best effort. Going careful and slow, taking the time to make it as neat and clean as it can be.

He does his best to hold still throughout, eyes locked on the opposite wall, hands clenched shut, nails almost cutting into palms. Mind as blank as he can manage, trying not to think about the pain.

It goes slowly, the Witcher having to muddle together a way to close the wound, a way to carefully fit together the scraps of skin. Tug it into place- out of place? Into new place, held together careful and close.

Eyes remained locked on the wall until it is done. Until all the skin is stitched into place, thread tied off, needle set aside with care.

Geralt hums, examining his handy-work, thumb brushing against the skin, soft and gentle, giving him a moment to breathe before Geralt turns his attention to the remaining scattering of smaller wounds.

Small splinters carefully brushed away; any larger, more determined ones carefully pulled free. tiny flecks of wood and glass worked free of skin, collected carefully on the edge of the little table, as tiny as it is.

Leaving him with an odd splattering of cuts and scrapes, small scratches carved into the skin. Nothing big enough to scar, nothing big enough to leave a mark, not forever at least.

They would scab over in time, skin regrow and heal, leave him with little more than the odd, occasional blemish.

The blood blotted away, as much as it can be. Rag too quickly fully saturated, stained dark, water already run red, the room not set with supplies for such wounds.

Geralt offers him one more firm pat on the leg before standing, scattering of supplies cleaned away, remaining clean water dug out to clean his hands, still stained red in Jaskier’s blood as they are… a possibly concerningly normal circumstance.

He returns his eyes to the wall. lets the tired exhaustion he had been holding off sink back into his bones.

A clean set of clothes hits him in the face. A brief order- “Change.”

He groans, tired, muscles aching. Mumbles out a messy, half muffled, “nooo,” into the fabric.

Geralt snorts, nose crinkled, “you stink. Of ash and smoke, change.”

“And you smell of blood.” He retorts, chucking the shirt at Geralt’s head, Witcher catching it with unfair ease.

Geralt throws it back, shirt hitting him in the face. Again.

He grumbles. Unreasonably irritated at the request, despite seeing the sense in it.

Ash coats his clothes, his skin, flecks caught in his hair, stinging at his eyes.

What he truly needed was more than a change of clothes. He needed a bath, needed the chance to soak, to scrub clean the ashy layer from his skin, scrape off all the grime.

But sadly, that clearly wasn’t currently an option.

A reality he was almost depressingly accustomed to.

So instead, he has to settle on wiping clean his skin best he can with the already ruined shirt, drags it down his face, scrubs at his hair and does his best to clean away as much of the grime as he could.

It helps, somewhat, he thinks. Clears away at least some of the mess, doing the best he can under the circumstances.

He tugs on the new clothes. Fresh cloth, soft and clean, feels almost half dirty at first touch, a feeling he tries to ignore, tires not to think about. They are soft against his skin, soft and comfortable. He takes care with the trousers, loose as they are, careful not to disturb fresh stitches.

Geralt has changed as well by the time he is done, as much of the blood as possible cleaned away, only a few splattering’s and specks left visible, an overlooked smear on the jawline, odd dribble soaked into a strand or two of hair.

The Witcher looks good, still slightly rustled wild, but otherwise comfortable. Otherwise, warm and… soft. Hair half tousled out of place, first few buttons on the loose white shirt unbuttoned, hanging distractingly open...

But then the Witcher always looks good, always will.

He would certainly still be looking good some other day, when Jaskier’s leg wasn’t agonisingly aching. And he would be there to see it.

He hums, sighs comfortably and settles down, warm and comfortable. Tucked up in the soft, gentle bed. Leg stretched out in an attempt to minimise the pain. Arm hung over the blanket cover, an attempt to keep the fabric from dragging across his skin.

Geralt collapses onto the mattress beside him, bed shifting at the movement, jostling him for a moment. 

He turns, curls in towards the Witcher, nose nuzzled into Geralt’s soft hair.

His nose crinkles, half turned away for a second before turning back, “you still smell like blood.”

Geralt snorts, “and you still smell of smoke, bard.”

He hums in answer, unable to argue against it, the statement likely true.

There is blood tickling at his nose, smoke soaked into his hair and a deep ache set into his leg, and yet somehow it didn’t matter.

For just for this moment, he was settled down, warm and comfortable, happy to leave the mess, the aches and dirt and pain till tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> \- thanks for reading -


End file.
